New World
by moonlighten
Summary: 2009-2011: The dynamics of Northern Ireland's family begin to change. (Northern Ireland POV of Scotland/France, America/England, England/femPortugal and Wales/Romano.) Multi-chapter, complete. Part 74 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Scotland and France

**12th December, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
Northern Ireland can't help but think there's something sinister afoot.

Scotland's initial invitation had been suspicious enough, as it was made unexpectedly in the course of a simple phone call and not after weeks of careful negotiation with England, who needed to be persuaded anew with each visit that Scotland could be trusted to prevent Northern Ireland from falling into a life of crime/keep him adequately fed and watered/refrain from losing him down the back of the sofa/whatever the fuck else it was that made him so anxious about the prospect usually.

What was even more suspicious was Scotland's purported reasoning for issuing his summons. Apparently, they needed to 'talk', which is an idea so ludicrous that it defies all understanding.

He and Scotland might exchange the odd word about football if the mood strikes them, and Scotland certainly talks _at_ Northern Ireland frequently – mostly in an attempt to cram geology lessons into Northern Ireland's unwilling head – and orders him around with abandon, but they never have _conversations._ At least, not one on one.

Curiosity had driven Northern Ireland to agree to the meeting, but that evaporates the second he steps foot in Scotland's house.

His brother has clearly applied himself to making the place presentable with a diligence hitherto unwitnessed. Nothing crunches beneath Northern Ireland's feet as he walks from the front door to the living room as Scotland directs him to, he doesn't have to excavate several layers of clothes and papers from one of the armchairs before he can use it, and there's an honest to god vase of flowers sitting on the coffee table, instead of a week's worth of takeaway cartons.

It all smacks of an attempt to create a serene, soothing sort of atmosphere. The sort of atmosphere, perhaps, that a person might want to provide for their brother if they were about to break some dreadful news to him.

Northern Ireland isn't curious at all now; just mildly terrified.

It's hard to imagine, though, anything that Scotland might consider sufficiently shocking that it merited tête-à-têtes and deep cleaning.

Northern Ireland doesn't keep up with current affairs quite as diligently as he maybe should, but unless there's some media-wide conspiracy of silence in place, he's pretty confident nevertheless that Scotland's country is not on the verge of collapse, which would seem to rule out a serious illness of any kind.

Discounting imminent death, he can only think that he might have been misled about the lifelong nature of the whole nation thing, and Scotland's decided to sack it all in and retire to the Caribbean or something.

That, too, he would consider beyond the bounds of possibility even if it turned out that they could actually resign their positions, but the fact that Scotland returns from the kitchen carrying not only two tumblers but also a bottle of his best whisky – which implies that he thinks the blow he's about to deliver is so great that it needs to be drowned rather than merely softened – worries him enough to ask, "You're not moving to Barbados, are you?"

Scotland looks at him like he's sprouted another head and neither one of them are speaking any sense. "No," he says firmly.

Northern Ireland should have known that idea was nonsense, regardless of whatever his nervous flutter in his stomach might be trying to suggest to the contrary, because Scotland burns if he so much as thinks about sunshine.

"Iceland, then?"

Scotland ignores him – which Northern Ireland guesses is an answer in and of itself – and pours out two measures of whisky so generous that they're in danger of overflowing their glasses. He hands one to Northern Ireland, and then slumps onto the sofa with the second, his face scrunched into the sort of pensive expression that Northern Ireland has only ever seen him wear before when he's trying to puzzle out especially complicated budget documentation.

His blunt fingernails tick restlessly against the side of his glass for a moment, in a way that always brings a countdown to Northern Ireland's mind; not because of the rhythm – as there's none to speak of – but because it typically precedes an explosion of some kind.

When he does eventually speak, however, his voice is surprisingly calm, although the short, sharp breaths he takes between every other word sound anything but. "So," he says, almost gasping the word, "I got back together with France."

Northern Ireland hadn't even been aware that they'd split up. His brothers never tell him _anything_.

"Oh," he says. "Okay."

Scotland watches him warily, as though anticipating a delayed reaction more along the lines of weeping, wailing and the general rending of clothes, and Northern Ireland slowly begins to realise that _that_ had been the announcement this rendezvous had been set up to impart.

It's not really the bombshell he'd been expecting.

"You've been with him my entire life, right?" He shrugs. "It's hardly news."

"We weren't exactly…" Scotland pauses, clearly struggling to find the right way to express himself. A new ice age could have practically come and gone before he manages to find his tongue again. "_Together_ together, though. But we are now, so he's going to be around a lot more than he used to be, and I know you don't like him very much –"

"I like France," Northern Ireland says, puzzled as to how Scotland could have ever come to believe otherwise.

"Really?" Scotland looks equally perplexed. "I just thought… Well, you always seemed to try and avoid him whenever he came to visit me at England's."

"I thought he was avoiding _me_," Northern Ireland says. "England always gave me the impression it was because of the whole biting thing."

Northern Ireland had gone through a phase – by all reports, painfully protracted – of exploring the world via his teeth in the early years of the 1930s, and France's knees had apparently been a point of particular interest. As France's own interest in Northern Ireland had seemed to wane in conjunction with said phase, Northern Ireland had previously been inclined to believe England's take on the matter.

Scotland shakes his head emphatically. "Naw, he knows how weans are; it was nothing to do with that. It was more… Me, I guess. Or us. Everything was a bit fucked up back then, really, but it'll all be different now, I promise you."


	2. England and America

**August, 2010; London, England**

-  
On the surface, the get-together is no different than any other England might host for America when he was visiting London: charred and leathery roast dinner; awkward small talk about their days; England looking like he's but one ill-judged comment away from either punching America or… something else.

But beneath that, nothing about it is normal. England clearly has some ulterior motive for arranging it, even though Northern Ireland has yet to work out what that might be.

It can't be to ease them into the knowledge that the nature England and America's relationship has changed, because they'd all been present at America's party, and all borne horrified witness to the initial drunken fumbling which presaged that particular upheaval to the status quo.

And it can't be intended as an introduction into the family – as Northern Ireland understands is a normal step in legitimising this sort of affair – as, well, they already _are_ America's family.

It's not normal, and that's clear in every abrupt change of subject that occurs whenever the conversation threatens to take an accidental turn into slightly more personal territory; in every averted eye when England and America's hands accidentally brush and then linger a little bit too long for comfortable viewing thereafter.

Wales and Scotland might be able to bear it all with slightly forced looking smiles and dogged questions about American sports that they have little understanding of and even less interest in, but Northern Ireland wants to scream at them, '_I know you both saw America touch England's _arse_ when he stood up to get the custard! How can you just sit there and pretend it didn't happen?_'

Nevertheless, he has been well-schooled in proper mealtime etiquette – no elbows on the table, no speaking with your mouth full, no talk of religion, politics and arses (or the touching thereof) – so he simply concentrates very hard on his rhubarb crumble and pretends the rest of the dining room doesn't exist for a while.

His studied indifference carries him unscathed through pudding, tea and After Eights, and even the subsequent argument over the washing up, but it provides absolutely no defence against the proposal America puts to him afterwards.

_That_ makes his heart flip sickeningly in his chest and sends him scampering in search of the comforting bosom of the one member of his family who might offer him some sympathy.

"America just asked me if I wanted to chuck a ball around with him," he announces, horrified, to Wales when he eventually finds him hidden away in the depths of England's library.

Wales frowns, which is a hopeful sign. What he says is decidedly less so, however. "You should give yourself a little time to digest your food first. You might get stomach ache otherwise."

"Don't you watch American TV shows at all?" Northern Ireland asks incredulously.

Wales' frown deepens, suggesting that that might indeed be the case, which, really, Northern Ireland should have anticipated, as his brother's viewing habits do appear to be somewhat more S4C-focused nowadays than they used to be.

"I'm afraid I can't see what that's got to do with anything," Wales says eventually.

"That's what the fathers on them always seem to want to do with their sons: play catch after dinner," Northern Ireland explains. "Next thing you know, he'll be calling me junior and offering to coach my fucking 'soccer' team or something."

"You're not even on a football team," Wales says, sounding lost enough that it's unsurprising that he missed Northern Ireland's point by a sizeable distance. After some silent deliberation, he works his way back around to it, though, and adds, "Just because England's relationship with America's changed, it doesn't mean that yours has to, and I shouldn't imagine America would expect it to, either. He likely just has some excess energy he wants to burn off because he's been stuck in meetings all day. He's been that way since he was a kid. I remember when –"

As any sentence Wales stats with 'remember when' usually leads thenceforth to reminiscences that can last for hours – and, as America is involved, inevitably towards the same bloody story about Wales' harp that Northern Ireland must have heard at least a hundred times over the course of his life thus far – Northern Ireland hurriedly interrupts him with:

"That's a fucking relief." And it is, because whilst Wales might not have the… intimate knowledge that England does, he's known America for long enough that Northern Ireland still trusts his judgement on the matter. "I don't think I could have coped with him trying to be… my step-dad, or whatever. He's barely older than me."

"He's a lot older than you, _Gogledd_," Wales points out, which Northern Ireland _knows_ is, strictly speaking, true, but it doesn't _feel_ like it is, because America certainly doesn't act like it a lot of the time.

And Northern Ireland has always found it difficult to think of America as very much his elder because England's house is saturated with his childhood – the room he used to share with Canada on their infrequent youthful visits is filled with his old toys and books, and even a few examples of the needlework England tried to force him to learn, which look like they had been sewn by an especially ungainly elephant – and Scotland, Wales, and occasionally even England, still refer to him as a 'wean'.

With that thought fresh in his mind, it feels even stranger than before that Scotland and Wales are apparently so blasé about what's transpiring between their brother and America.

"Don't you think it's all a bit weird?" he asks hesitantly. "I mean, you all raised him, and –"

"It wasn't like that at all. We probably only saw him once or twice a decade." Wales' mouth crooks upwards at one corner. "To be honest, I struggled with the prospect myself at first, but then Scotland came up with the idea that we should think of them being like Emma and Mr Knightley, and that helped us get our heads around it all a little better. Maybe it'd help you if thought about it like that, as well."

Frankly, Northern Ireland has always considered that relationship slightly creepy, too. "No, not particularly," he says.

"I suspect it might be different for England because America's revolution hit him so hard that he got used to disassociating the boy from the man. It's…" Wales sighs heavily. "Look, _Gogledd_, the whys and wherefores don't really matter. What matters is that England's happy."

Northern Ireland snorts. "England's never happy."

"Maybe he hasn't been as often as he could be lately," Wales says, "but that might change now. Just so long as we don't fight it too hard, anyway."  
-

* * *

-  
Northern Ireland isn't surprised that England hasn't yet finished the washing up when he returns to the kitchen, as he seems to be giving the view through the window above the sink far more of his concentration than the movements of his sponge, which he only manages to connect with a piece of crockery on every fourth attempt.

When Northern Ireland steps up beside his brother and follows his gaze, the reason for his distraction becomes abundantly, distressingly clear.

The evening is warm and far too muggy for any sensible person to be exerting themselves outdoors, but Scotland and America are giving it a good go, regardless. Northern Ireland can't quite tell what game they're attempting to play with England's rugby ball, but it involves a hell of a lot of shouting, tackling, and enough running around the place that Scotland has turned beetroot red and his T-shirt is plastered to his back with sweat.

America, on the other hand, has stripped to the waist and is thus only lightly flushed, his chest… Northern Ireland supposes a person might say it was glistening, if they were predisposed to admire that sort of thing.

Judging by England's faint smile and the dreamy cast of his eyes, he's certainly enjoying the view. For the time being, Northern Ireland would prefer to believe that England's simply pleased he got to see the accidental knee to the bollocks that Scotland's just received, but whatever the real reason, Wales is right; it's good to see their brother seeming so content for a change.

"I think I'll go out and join them, after all," he tells England.

England's smile grows wider than Northern Ireland has ever seen it before. "America would like that."

When Northern Ireland starts towards the back door, however, England grabs his elbow, holding him still. "After you've done the drying, of course," he says.

Some things, it appears, are doomed to never change.


	3. England and Portugal

**31st December, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
When Northern Ireland bursts into Scotland's kitchen, France is stirring something in a pan on the hob, and Scotland is standing so close to him that they might as well be sharing trousers, the fingers of one hand tracing loose circles across the small of France's back.

Normally, Northern Ireland would make a flustered retreat when unexpectedly confronted with such a sight, but given what he's just witnessed, it actually seems charmingly benign. And, besides, he hasn't got anywhere to retreat _to_, not with the yard rendered inhospitable by the presence of Ireland, who's out there smoking with Wales; upstairs polluted by a herd of Scotland's fae; and the living room…

Northern Ireland doesn't want to step foot in the living room again until it's been confirmed by a disinterested third party that it's safe for him to do so.

Scotland takes a quick step back and away from France, but the threatening glare he levels towards Northern Ireland afterwards soon softens into the closest approximation of a concerned expression that his perpetually dour face is capable of.

"Are you okay, North?" he asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

If only it had been something as prosaic as that, Northern Ireland's heart probably wouldn't still have been hammering so hard it still felt as though it might crack his ribs in two. "No, it was –"

He almost doesn't want to continue, because he knows how England feels about gossip – namely that it's poisonous, at least when it pertains to himself – but he's also convinced that the burden of such terrible knowledge is too great to be carried alone.

"It was England and Portugal. In the living room. They were…"

Here his words fail him again. He can recall the scene perfectly if he closes his eyes, but he daren't look at as closely as would be required to describe any of the details. It was bad enough the first time around.

"Kissing," is, therefore, the best he can manage. "And… And things."

"Things?" Scotland's top lip curls in obvious distaste. "They weren't… naked things, were they?"

Thankfully, Northern Ireland had only left the room for a few minutes to sneak a clandestine cigarette in the downstairs bathroom, so whilst the situation may have progressed in that direction, given time, all he'd actually walked in on was the aforementioned kissing and a little light clasping. Not that it was any the less shocking on account of its PG nature, but, technically, the sole honest answer he can give Scotland is, "No."

"Thank fuck for that," Scotland says. "I just washed the bloody sofa cushions last week. Didn't want to have to do it again."

Northern Ireland watches his brother carefully, waiting for some sign of surprise or horror to dawn, or for him to start raving about how his Hogmanay celebrations are (yet again) going to be ruined. There's nothing but the usual vague distaste he displays whenever he has to think about England touching someone in anything other than a purely platonic fashion, however.

"You knew about this, didn't you," Northern Ireland says. It seems to be the one rational explanation for his brother's underreaction.

"Aye, in _general_," Scotland says. "Not that they were planning on going at it in my living room, though. Maybe I should go and pour a bucket of water over them or something."

He and France share a smile at that, as though it's a huge fucking joke, and England isn't cheating on America right under their noses without making even the pettiest of attempts at subterfuge.

"And you haven't told America?" Northern Ireland asks, aghast. He can't imagine Scotland covering for England in any capacity, least of all this, and yet he must have, as America and England's relationship seems to be chugging along just as agreeably as before, judging by England's continued good mood.

Scotland looks slightly uncomfortable, although not, to Northern Ireland's disappointment, in a guilty way. "No need. Apparently, he's already well aware."

"And Portugal? Does she know about America?"

Many years ago, when he was still in short trousers, Northern Ireland had developed a little crush on Portugal. It had only lasted a year or so – during which time she'd been the recipient of countless blobby finger painted renditions of her face and bouquets of dandelions plucked from England's garden – but some tiny remnant of romantic feeling must have been lurking, unheeded, at the bottom of his heart all this time, because he finds that he's even more appalled at the thought of England deceiving her than America.

Scotland shrugs. "I should think so. England hasn't really been keeping it a secret, has he? Fucking announcing it from the rooftops, more like."

"Okay," Northern Ireland says slowly, trying to fit this new information into a picture that makes any sort of sense. The attempt is a miserable failure. "So, how exactly does it work with the three of them, then?"

France looks up from his pan again and smirks at Northern Ireland. Some infinitesimal shift in either his neck or shoulders must alert Scotland to the instant he opens his mouth to reply, as he quickly growls out an admonitory, "France."

France rolls his eyes. "You know I have no more information about the particulars than you do, _mon coeur_. I was hardly going to give _Nord_ a blow by blow account, just my own speculation."

Whilst France's speculations are more than likely backed up by practical experience and thus doubtless very close to the mark, it isn't the… physical aspects of such things that Northern Ireland is finding difficult to understand.

Those, he has a decent – if purely theoretical – grasp of. What he can't countenance is that _England_ has got himself involved in that sort of arrangement.

England, who gets so embarrassed if anyone so much as kisses on the telly that he has to change the channel; who slips into his pyjamas at nine o'clock on the dot and has a hot milky drink before he goes to bed; who seems to exude the very essence of tweed and mothballs; who wears fucking _sock suspenders_.

Northern Ireland would have thought that the insult to his sense of propriety would be so severe that he'd pass out if he even entertained the idea.

Instead, it's Scotland who looks like he's about to swoon at the very concept. "I don't think we need to hear it, _mo chridhe_," he says, screwing his eyes closed for a moment as though he's riding out a wave of vertigo. "Look, North, all you really need to know is that they have some sort of arrangement, and it seems to be working out just fine for them. It's all _I_ know, and I'm quite happy with that."

On nothing more than a split second's reflection, Northern Ireland finds he is too. So long as everything's running as smoothly as Scotland seems to think it is, the particulars don't matter.

The general gist definitely fucking does, though, and Northern Ireland resolves to tell Wales that he wants to be informed should France ever manage to successfully matchmake him, if only so he can prepare himself in advance for what horrors might be lurking behind closed living room doors at any future family parties.


	4. Wales and Romano

**July, 2011; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
"So, how was your trip to Paris last weekend?" England says, in the forced tones of someone who'd really much rather be getting a root canal than asking the question.

"Grand," Scotland replies, sounding equally pained. "Wish I'd flown rather than driven, though. Traffic was a nightmare."

"The school holidays have just started, haven't they?" England's wince looks almost sympathetic. "I should think the situation's only going to get worse over the next couple of months."

"Aye," Scotland says, "it always does. And yet, every year, I only seem to remember that when I'm stuck in another fucking tailback on the M25."

Scotland and England exchange wan smiles, and then lean forward simultaneously to pick up the mugs Wales had set out for them on the coffee table earlier. Something about the desperate way they gulp their tea puts Northern Ireland in mind of refuelling, and he doesn't doubt that they need it.

They have carried on this stilted back and forth for more than twenty minutes – without a break, and without a single insult or snide remark from either of them – and Northern Ireland has watched the entire exchange in silent fascination.

The only possible explanation for their uncharacteristic tolerance for one another's company, he thinks, is a shared desire to ignore the great enormous elephant perched on Wales' best armchair. The one wearing a ludicrously expensive-looking shirt and the expression of someone experiencing considerable intestinal distress.

England starts getting to his feet whilst he slurps down the last dregs in his mug, "Well," he says, "I suppose I should take this to the kitchen for Wales. Save him a job."

"Good idea," Scotland says with an enthusiasm that he never normally displays when contemplating any task which has even the faintest whiff of housework about it. He then turns towards Northern Ireland and lifts his eyebrows significantly. "North?"

Northern Ireland looks down at his mug, from which he has taken two small sips of tea, and then sidelong at their pachyderm companion. He looks even surlier after tasting the coffee Wales had painstakingly prepared to his exact and extremely stringent specifications.

Deciding discretion is the better part of valour, he follows his brothers when they beat their hasty retreat.  
-

* * *

-  
Wales spares a brief moment to look a little chagrined when they all troop into the kitchen, but he soon resumes his flustered darting back and forth to poke at the contents of the bubbling pans on his hob.

"I know I'm running late," he says. "Slight cock-up with the peas. But, don't worry, I've got everything under control now. Shouldn't be more than ten minutes, I think."

"It's not dinner you should be apologising for," Scotland says, slamming his mug down at the farthest point of the counter from both the sink and dishwasher.

"It isn't?" Wales pauses, wooden spoon held aloft and dripping water all over the lino. "What should I be apologising for, then?"

"Dragging us all here under false pretences," Scotland says, frowning. "You said you were going to introduce us to your new boyfriend."

"Which I have," Wales says, his own brow furrowing. "I don't see –"

"Jesus, you don't actually expect me to believe you're going out with him, do you?" Scotland takes a step closer to Wales, who shifts his spoon into a more defensive position. "Grumpy Italy, Wales? Really?"

Wales' mouth tightens. "Don't call him that."

"Why not?" Scotland asks, sounding exasperated. "We've never called him anything _else_!"

"To be fair, Wales, you can't blame us for being surprised," England says as he steps around Scotland and Wales to place his own mug contentiously on the draining board. "I don't recall you ever having a good word to say about him before. And then there was that unpleasantness at the EU Christmas do last year…"

Northern Ireland senses that there's a long, dreadful story behind the pregnant silence England trails into, but, as ever, it's one that no-one has seen fit to make him privy to. He's not at annoyed about that oversight as he would normally be, however, because Wales had at least done him the courtesy he'd begged for and let him know ahead of time that he'd become romantically entangled again.

He had been incredibly cagey about the specifics, but, given England and Scotland's reactions, Northern Ireland can hardly blame him.

"That was all a misunderstanding." Wales flaps his free hand dismissively. "We worked through it, got to know each other a little better, and… Please, just try and keep an open mind about this, okay? For me?"  
-

* * *

-  
Before today, the closest Northern Ireland has ever been to Romano is having the back of his head pointed out to him at a Six Nations game by Wales, who, at the time, was desperately trying to avoid being spotted by the other nation. Consequently, it seems more than fair to give him the benefit of the doubt, for his own sake as well as Wales'.

His constant scowl could simply be the result of suffering a similar facial affliction to Scotland who, through no fault of his own, usually looks as though he's on the verge of strangling the nearest warm body, even when he's spending time with France.

And the sneer he directs towards Wales' carefully decorated table when they're called into the dining room is excusable, because whilst Wales might have purportedly once attended flower arranging classes with Cerys, they'd obviously been in vain. His centrepiece looks as though it had been created by throwing flowers randomly at a vase from a great distance and just leaving the ones that managed to land upright by happenstance where they fell.

What's harder to forgive – what makes Northern Ireland's mind shrink down to roughly the size of a grain of rice – is the disgusted face Romano pulls upon his first taste of Wales' lasagne.

Wales makes a clear attempt at a stiff upper lip when he catches sight of Romano's reaction, but although his smile remains fixed in place, the rest of his face droops despondently around it.

Even England appears slightly shocked, but then Wales is the jewel in their familial culinary crown, such as it is, and they'd always considered his lasagne his pièce de résistance.

Northern Ireland's eyes flicker uneasily towards Scotland. His face is predictably puce-tinged, and his fists even more predictably clenched, but after clearing his throat with a rough exhale that sounds worryingly like a growl, he doesn't swear bloody vengeance and then smash Romano's face down onto his plate.

"Excuse me," he says instead to Wales, the words clipped but excruciatingly polite. "I just need to step away from the table for a while."  
-

* * *

-  
Scotland's 'while' stretches through both the main course and a similarly ungratefully received dessert.

Northern Ireland had supposed he'd taken himself off for a cathartic stomp around the neighbourhood, but when he steals out into Wales' garden for an illicit postprandial cigarette, he spots Scotland lurking by the back fence.

He's not quick enough in his about-face, sadly, to avoid Scotland's notice. "Lend us a fag, North?" he bellows out, heedless of England's keen hearing and endless obsession with the sanctity of Northern Ireland's lungs. "I've run out."

Northern Ireland hurries forward, fag packet held placatingly outstretched in front of him in the feeble hope that the sight of it will stem any further loud, damning outbursts from his brother.

Scotland does, thankfully, manage to hold his tongue, and as soon as Northern Ireland steps into arm's reach, he grabs hold of the packet with all the desperation of a person deprived of nicotine for days, never mind the small mountain of butts scattered around his feet.

He fumbles out a cigarette, lights it, and then inhales practically half in one long drag. "Can you believe this, North?" he says, smoke streaming from his nostrils in thick clouds. "Grumpy fucking Italy…"

Northern Ireland remembers Wales telling him that he should be happy that England was happy, no matter his own personal feelings about his brother's relationship with America. And Wales… Well, he doesn't seem _happy_, precisely, but he's certainly a lot less gloomy than he has been of late.

Still willing to reserve judgement for the time being – and to concede that perhaps Romano might just be having a bad day – Northern Ireland shrugs.

"I know he was having a shit time of it with the whole dating thing," Scotland says, undeterred, "but I can't believe it was so fucking dire that he felt he had to settle for _him_. He could do so much –"

'_Better_', Northern Ireland silently finishes for his brother, who sets about demolishing the rest of his cigarette in favour of following the sentence through to its natural conclusion.

And Northern Ireland suspects he likely never will voice it, because, for reasons that continue to escape his understanding, Scotland seems allergic to admitting that Wales has any qualities that could be construed as positive in any way, and has always conducted their best friendship with an evasiveness better suited to being engaged in an affair: complete with private meetings behind everyone elses' backs, strenuous denial, and, apparently, protectiveness disguised as anger.

"Mark my words," Scotland says eventually, dropping the butt of his cigarette and then grinding it firmly beneath his heel, "he's going to be fucking horrible for him."


End file.
